


Scrawled I Love You On My Skin

by ninemoons42



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Haircuts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-27
Updated: 2011-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-16 22:35:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/17044.html?thread=34259348#t34259348">this prompt</a> at <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/inception_kink/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/inception_kink/"><b>inception_kink</b></a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scrawled I Love You On My Skin

  
title: Scrawled I Love You On My Skin  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
pairing: Arthur/Eames  
warnings: Arthur looks like [this](http://www.rowthree.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/JGL-hesher-2.jpg) [potentially NSFW], from the movie _Hesher_. Eames is shocked to find him looking like such a douchebag. There are blowjobs. This is an Eames POV story.  
Also, I was encouraged into doing this by [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/anatsuno/profile)[**anatsuno**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/anatsuno/) and [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/cherrybina/profile)[**cherrybina**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/cherrybina/).  
disclaimer: I don't own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.  
summary: written for [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/17044.html?thread=34259348#t34259348) at [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/inception_kink/profile)[**inception_kink**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/inception_kink/).

  
"Damn this, damn this all straight to everloving SHIT."

Well, you'll excuse my language, of course; I'm not normally as high-strung as this. It takes me a long time to get to this state normally, compared to everyone else. I've seen Yusuf and Ariadne lose their shit over smaller things, and I once listened in on a fairly epic shouting match between Cobb and Saito, I don't even remember what it was all about, only that it wasn't during the Fischer job. And none of them, on the other side of that coin, have ever heard me even so much as raise my voice, not even during the worst of the snarking matches.

We've been doing other things, on and off, same team, since we can look after each other and, of course, some people need to be taught things (I refer of course to our Architect, who is now also a crack shot of the pistol and rifle kind.

(Training with an ex-SAS man - namely, me - can do that to a body, no matter who that body is.)

Today's a little different; I'm home, in London, and I have only spent the last four months looking for Arthur goddamn Hardy. I do think I'm now allowed to be frustrated. This, this is unprecedented; I have always been able to locate him, it's a talent of mine, and one that I'm pretty sure has gotten me into his black books several times.

The thought that this is one of those times HAS occurred to me, of course, but it's impossible at this point, since we did the last job and it was a complete mess and we got out of it laughing, guns smoking and all. He'd even come back here, to the flat, with me, and we'd spent just about the next thirty-six hours in bed, before he left.

I remember that he was grinning, when he left.

There's an email in my inbox. Sender: wakemeupwakemeup.

I have an LKL for PM, it says. There's a set of coordinates, one grainy image of a house. There seems to be a heat source in front of the house, a fire or something, judging from the washed-out patch.

Thank you, I respond.

I have a job and I desperately need Arthur, and this is how I'm going to find him, Middle-of-Nowhere, America.

He's going to have to do a lot of explaining when I catch up with him.

///

The more I see of this neighborhood the more mystified I become.

Arthur, well, from the little he's let slip, he's always been upper-class, although with a twist. He is an upper-class kid who was raised nearly entirely on Army bases. (I know, I know, do you think you're the only ones mystified by the combination?) I've spent enough time around him - and it's kind of the nature of my job - to figure out exactly what sort of accent he has.

I am not about to descend into stereotypes here, but, well, what exactly is Arthur doing in a place that could be described as "white trash"? Undercover? No job takes twelve weeks. Hiding from someone? Likely. Summoned here? By who?

I look again at the location that the coordinates resolved to. House with a detached garage. From the leaves on the driveway, no one has a car. I squint and there's actually smoke drifting out one of the garage windows.

Well, nothing to do but walk up the driveway. I'm glad I'm dressed for this area. I pass a woman sitting absently in her yard; she pays me no attention, but the big...thing...chained next to her - I have no idea if it's a dog or some other American monster - growls at me. He must not like tartans.

Knock, knock.

"It's open! Who the fuck are you!"

I pull, and the garage door screeches, and I step inside. It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Vague outline of a couch, covered with some kind of hideous sheet - it's that idiot yellow sponge, ugh.

Something moves atop the couch and I stop thinking, I start moving. Pistol up, tracking toward the sheet, the shadow moving atop it, curls of smoke drifting around.

"What the shit? EAMES?"

And, oh, so that's what the expression "cut off at the knees" comes from.

Because the person on the couch and is getting up, is walking toward me. He steps into several bars of sunlight.

This isn't Arthur, although that had been his voice.

How can this be him? He's wearing only his smalls, and they're almost grey, and there are suspicious darker spots, as though they had begun red and then faded into dark brown, here and there. His chest and stomach with stick figures and misspelled insults, and when I glance off to the side I can see black markers in a random heap near the couch. He smells like he hasn't washed in a couple of days.

His face is the worst shock. His face and his hair. He's completely dirty, several weeks' worth of beard, untidy hair hanging about, hanging past his shoulders. I don't have to touch it to know it will be extremely greasy. Dark circles around his eyes. The cigarette smells terrible, sickly-sweet and disgusting.

How can this be Arthur bloody Hardy?

"Eames. What are you doing here?"

I manage to swallow. "Looking for you, naturally."

"There's a job?"

"Yes." Oh fuck it. "What the hell happened to you? Are you Arthur?"

He walks right up to me then, and, yes, I know those eyes well. Trickiest part of him to forge, and I say that from experience. "Look, I don't know what you're doing here, and I'm starting to get weirded out by this line of questioning - but yes, you idiot, it's me."

Well, good, confirmation is good.

And against my better judgement, I grab at his arms and yank him towards me, and I crush his mouth under mine.

As I mentioned before: FOUR MONTHS.

"Mmph!" is all I hear out of Arthur - and then he's pressing into me, he's biting at my lips. Horrible taste of whatever he was smoking in my mouth. Smell of him crowding everything else out.

I'm not sure I care any more.

He's pulling me forward now and we suddenly tumble down onto the sofa, onto the stupid sponge sheet, and Arthur releases my mouth - only to lick a wet stripe up my throat.

I can't get out of my clothes fast enough. I nearly tear his underwear off. When I shove him down onto the couch I'm torn between two overwhelming urges. I want to kiss him. I want to kill him.

In the end, I get down on my knees on the floor. Arthur's cock stiff against his belly, precome glistening in the fading sunlight.

I take a deep breath and I swallow him down.

He smells terrifically grimy. Dirty. And he smells AMAZING.

Arthur half-arches off the couch, buries his hands in my hair. It hurts, a little. It makes me take him in deeper, deeper, until he's nudging the very back of my throat. I swallow, once, and Arthur nearly sobs.

Yeah. I've been waiting to hear that again for sixteen long weeks.

He comes, and I take him all in.

"Can I return the favor?" Arthur asks once I've released him.

"Yes, please."

He motions me onto the couch, and I sprawl over it, legs wide.

Dirty face, terrible hair, and all, this is actually still Arthur, after all, and I push the greasy strands out of his face. "Look at me while you're doing that."

Arthur only smiles around my cock. And obeys.

It only takes an embarrassingly short time for me to fall over the edge.

I forget about asking for explanations for a moment and when he's done wiping his mouth on the sheet, I haul him up, pull him in, dirt and all.

After, long after, once we've left that place, I watch him shower, and I cut his hair for him and I have to preen when he says, "Not bad." I watch him shave off the beard. When he's done he only needs a suit, or at the very least a good waistcoat, and he's Arthur again.

But I sit and watch him walk around in a Nickelback t-shirt and a truly hideous pair of skinny jeans.  



End file.
